Blog Archives

Winter Robin, by Guy Fletcher

25/2/2019

It is only mid-February
but already the soil awakes:
fully formed daffodils wave,
sun burning gold into the woods.
The almond tree blossom has bloomed,
white petals dancing to the ground below
when winter grass should don a coat of snow

yet it is the robin I admire the most,
its head moving swiftly to and fro
displaying a rotund rusty breast.
People relax outside a country pub
with the grim storms quite forgotten.
I watch the robin as it flickers away
in a balmy breeze...that belongs to May.

That Sinking Feeling, by Adrian McRobb

22/2/2019

I'm thinking I'm sinking
while thinking of you
I'm sinking and thinking
admiring the view
I'm sinking and thinking
of less bodily mieu
I'm thinking of sinking
while sinking from view
If I was less sinking
I'd think more of you...

Cinders, by Adrian McRobb

22/2/2019

They found it
at the bottom
of the fire-escape

Still smoking

While in the room
with the wind blown drapes

The Prince is dead

Detectives twitch their noses
cleaning whiskers
the coachman hides feathers
in his pocket

An airport taxi disgorges
its hurried departure
two brass shell cases
on the seat...

In Silent Mode, by Julie Achilles

19/2/2019

We were in silent mode and like a cancer it spread,
An abyss appeared and consumed us with our silence,
Once the young, carefree us disappeared,
A time when words were not needed.

Then, words were all we had left and we could not find them,
We were lost and there was no way back,
Now, I am old and lonely and sad with, just memories,
I have words now, but you cannot hear them.

I wonder how your life fared, happiness? contentment?
Photo's old and battered, smiles, laughter, just memories,
Always in my head, always in my heart.
Silence.

The Last Goodbye, by Guy Fletcher

18/2/2019

Haggis, by Adrian McRobb

15/2/2019

History
Wrapped
In sausage

Convexity Raindrop, by Adrian McRobb

15/2/2019

Can you see the world
in a raindrop

Magnified focused
splitting light
through a prism

A lasered view
no parallax error
a cosmic distance ladder
making planets microscopic
small as a galaxy

A universe
in a drop of water
Asimov said..

Russian Dolls, by Guy Fletcher

11/2/2019

Russian dolls standing in a row,
a gift from a loved one many years ago.
At the moment the sun paints them gold
from the tiny child to the father.
I remember, I remember, twisting each one,
placing them on the ledge in the bedroom,
a once magical place, now like a tomb.

I prefer to forget the bitter arguments
recalling with fondness Saturday mornings,
sun caresssing her yellow locks.
Oh, how fortunate we do not know
what callous fate has in store.
Russian dolls standing in a row,
a gift from a loved one...many years ago.

The Museum Plate, by Adrian McRobb

8/2/2019

They no longer tell me stories
they don't invite me to the fire
they left me to borrow soil
no-one is to hold me again
no-one will scrape my bread
no-one can return me whole
a torch-lit pattern
scraped and spooned
offering to the tribe of man
a stone memory..

The Accident, by Sheila Ash

8/2/2019

I’d known something was wrong
even before opening the door.

There was a formality to his stance
hat politely in hand
buttons glistening in the rain.
Shivered goosebumps on my skin.

The uniform told its story before his words.
In the chill, my heart lagged a beat
behind the snore of night.
The world slumbered, unawares.

Cyborg Suicide, by Ian Fletcher

7/2/2019

The promised
immortality
brought on
unanticipated
insanity
from plethora
of memories:
total recall
information
overload
negated
everything
past present
and future
experience
upon
experience
blended into
this chaotic
kaleidoscope
of dreams
morphed into
nightmares –
thus I switch
myself
OFF.

Snowfall at St Mary's Church, Whitchurch, by Guy Fletcher

2/2/2019

I carefully stroll through the gates
and under the arch of the old Norman church,
tombs and fir trees adorned with white
on this bitter early February morning.
A magpie creates a transient flurry
as the sun paints diamonds into the snow
perhaps watched by those reposing below.

There's not a living soul visible
as I study the inscriptions:
some have been weathered away
and a cross has fallen like a tree,
no flowers here, it lies quite forgot.
I think of all those who've walked through such snow,
the world such a different place long ago.

Poetry

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